🎅📘🎥Friday's Film Adaptation🎥📘🎄: A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens

Summary:

Experience Charles Dickens's Christmas masterpiece, featuring the authentic first-edition illustrations by John Leech that defined the story for generations.

When the miserly Ebenezer Scrooge dismisses Christmas as mere "humbug," he has no idea that his cold heart is about to be transformed forever. On a bitter Christmas Eve in Victorian London, Scrooge receives an otherworldly visitation from his deceased business partner, Jacob Marley, who brings a dire warning: three spirits will visit before dawn, offering one last chance at redemption. As the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Yet to Come guide Scrooge through forgotten memories, hidden truths, and possible futures, he witnesses the true spirit of Christmas through the joy of his nephew's dinner and the humble celebrations of Bob Cratchit's family—including the unforgettable Tiny Tim.

Originally published on December 19, 1843, A Christmas Carol became an instant sensation, selling out its entire first edition by Christmas Eve. Dickens's timeless tale of transformation has shaped Christmas traditions for over 180 years, creating an unforgettable journey from darkness to light, from isolation to community, and from despair to hope that reminds us it's never too late to change and embrace the true meaning of Christmas.

This beautiful edition features:

Original, first-edition, high-quality illustrations by John Leech, the artist who first brought Scrooge, the spirits, and Victorian Christmas to visual life.

A comprehensive quiz at the end to test your knowledge of Scrooge's journey and the beloved characters.

The complete, unabridged text exactly as Dickens wrote it.

A unique cover design that captures the story's timeless appeal.

Easy-to-read typesetting that both children and adults can enjoy.

Free Family Reading Starter Kit – matching bookmark plus interactive Bingo game, discussion questions, and creative activities for reading classics together.

A Christmas Carol, the story that remains one of the most beloved tales ever written, will be the perfect gift for book lovers and a treasured addition to your holiday collection!

Original Blog Review December 2014:

Not all of Charles Dickens' work is among my reading list but A Christmas Carol is my favorite of all.  It's the best Christmas tale, in my opinion.  At the heart of the story is what so many of us tend to forget, although perhaps not to the extent as Ebenezer Scrooge has, and that is that heart and kindness is more important than wealth.

“And therefore, Uncle, though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, I believe that [Christmas] has done me good, and will do me good; and I say, God bless it!” 

“But you were always a good man of business, Jacob,' faltered Scrooge, who now began to apply this to himself.
Business!' cried the Ghost, wringing its hands again. "Mankind was my business; charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevolence, were, all, my business. The deals of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business!”  

“It is a fair, even-handed, noble adjustment of things, that while there is infection in disease and sorrow, there is nothing in the world so irresistibly contagious as laughter and good humour.”  

“For it is good to be children sometimes, and never better than at Christmas, when its mighty Founder was a child Himself.”  

“I will honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach!”

And I think the final quote from the book says more about why I love the book so much than any words I could come up with.

“And it was always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God bless Us, Every One!” 

 

Re-Read Review 2017:

There was a time when I read A Christmas Carol annually but since starting my book blog it seems I that life just hasn't allowed me the time to read it yearly.  So I decided that I would make time this year to give it a read and its just as good as its always been.  I wish I could say we don't need to be reminded of what should be important to us at Christmastime but everyone is always so busy that the Christmas spirit doesn't stay with us the way it should.  Charles Dickens has a way of making us remember and I love him for it.  Merry Christmas everyone and if you aren't one to celebrate, try to remember that the true meaning of the story and the lessons Ebenezer Scrooge learns still rings true for you too and for every day: kindness and goodwill to your fellow man should never be far from your heart.

Re-Read Review 2019:

This book just never gets old.  Frankly, if there ever was a time we need to be reminded of what is truly important in life it's now.  With all the strife and ignorance and intolerance in the world, it's never wrong to be reminded of what Christmas is all about.  A Christmas Carol should be read throughout the year, not just during the holiday season.  The lessons of kindness, decency, and acceptance to our fellow man should be lived every day.  I don't mean to sound preachy or judgmental but Charles Dickens has a way of making the spirit of Christmas come alive in A Christmas Carol that often gets forgotten the other 364 days of the year.  Truth be told, not only does it remind us of the holiday spirit it's a pretty darn great ghost story too😉😉.

Re-Read Review 2020:

The only thing I want to add to my previous reviews is that 2020 needs A Christmas Carol more than ever.  We need to see the kindness all around more this year as there has been so much negativity, hatred, anger, and plain old fashioned heartbreak.  No matter what form you read, listen, watch, take the lessons the Ghosts of Christmas teach Ebenezer Scrooge to heart.  Charles Dickens may have had no idea what he was giving to the world or the impact it would have on humanity but for me the story never gets old and frankly I don't have to wait till Christmastime to enjoy it.  A true classic delightful gem.

RATING: 

Stave One
Marley's Ghost

Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it: and Scrooge's name was good upon' Change, for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Marley was as dead as a door-nail.

Scrooge knew he was dead? Of course he did. How could it be otherwise? Scrooge and he were partners for I don't know how many years. Scrooge was his sole executor, his sole administrator, his sole assign, his sole residuary legatee, his sole friend, his sole mourner.

Scrooge never painted out Old Marley's name however. There it yet stood, years afterwards, above the warehouse door: Scrooge and Marley. The firm was known as Scrooge and Marley Sometimes people new to the business called Scrooge Scrooge, and sometimes Marley He answered to both names. It was all the same to him.

Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, was Scrooge! a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous old sinner!

Nobody ever stopped him in the street to say, with gladsome looks, "My dear Scrooge, how are you? when will you come to see me?" No beggars implored him to bestow a trifle, no children asked him what it was o'clock, no man or woman ever once in all his fife inquired the way to such and such a place, of Scrooge. Even the blindmen's dogs appeared to know him; and when they saw him coming on, would tug their owners into doorways and up courts; and then would wag their tails as though they said, "no eye at all is better than an evil eye, darkmaster!"

But what did Scrooge care!

Once upon a time — of all the good days in the year, upon a Christmas Eve-old Scrooge sat busy in his counting-house. It was cold, bleak, bitMg foggy weather and the city clocks had only just gone three, but it was quite dark already.

The door of Scrooge's countinghouse was open that he might keel) his eye upon his clerk, who in a dismal litde cell beyond — a sort of tank-was copying letters. Scrooge had a very small fire., but the clerk's fire was so very much smaller that it looked like one coal. But he couldn't replenish it, for Scrooge kept the coal-box in his own room; and so surely as the clerk came in with the shovel, the master predicted that it would be necessary for them to part. Wherefore the clerk put on his white comforter, and tried to warm himself at the candle; in which effort, not being a man of a strong imagination, he failed.

"A merry Christmas, uncle! God save you!" cried a cheerful voice. It was the voice of Scrooge's nephew, who came upon him so quickly that this was the first intimation Scrooge had of his approach.

"Bah!" said Scrooge, "Humbug!"'

"Christmas a humbug, uncle! You don't mean that, I am sure."

"I do. Out upon merry Christmas. What's Christmas time to you buta time for paying bills without money; a time for finding yourself a yearolder, and not an hour ri cher; a time for balanci ing your books and having every item in 'em through a round dozen of months presented deadagainst you? If I had my will, every idiot who goes about with 'MerryChristmas,' on his lips, should be boiled with his own pudding, andburied with a stake of holly through his heart. He should!"

"Uncle!"

"Nephew! Keep Christmas in your own way, and let me keep it mine."

"Keep it! But you don't keep it."

"Let me leave it alone, then. Much good may it do you! Much good it has ever done you!"

"There are many things from which I might have derived good, bywhich I have not profited, I dare say, Christmas among the rest. But I amsure I have always thought of Christmas time, when it has come round-apart from the veneration due to its sacred origin, if anything belong' ingto it can be apart from that — as a good time: a kind, forgiving, charitab1e, pleasant time: the only time I know of, in the long calendar of theyear, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-uphearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really werefellow-travellcrs to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound onother Journeys. And therefore, uncle, though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, I believe that it has done me good, and will do me good; and I say, God bless it!"

The clerk in the tank involuntarily applauded.

"Let me hear another sound from you," said Scrooge, "and you'll keep your Christmas by losing your situation. You're quite a powerful speaker, sir," he added, turning to his nephew. "I wonder you don't go into Parliament."

"Don't be angry, uncle. Come! Dine with us tomorrow."

Scrooge said that he would see him — yes, indeed he did. He went the whole length of the expression, and said that he would see him 'in that extremity first.

"But why?" cried Scrooge's nephew. "Why

"Why did you get married?"

"Because I fell in love."

"Because you fell in love!" growled Scrooge, as if that were the only one thing in the world more ridiculous than a merry Christmas. "Good afternoon!"

"Nay, uncle, but you never came to see me before that happened. Why give it as a reason for not coming now?"

"Good afternoon."

"I want nothing from you; I ask nothing of you; why cannot we be friends?"

"Good afternoon."

"I am sorry, with all my heart, to find you so resolute. We have never had any quarrel, to which I have been a party. But I have made the trial in homage to Christmas, and I'll keep my Christmas humour to the last. So A Merry Christmas, uncle!"

Misanthropic miser Ebenezer Scrooge is haunted by his deceased business partner, Jacob Marley. Marley's ghost is followed by three more spirits from Christmases Past, Present, and Yet to Come. Each has a lesson Scrooge must learn.

Release Date: October 11, 1997

Release Time: 69 minutes

Director: Stan Phillips

Cast:

Tim Curry as Ebenezer Scrooge

Whoopi Goldberg as Ghost of Christmas Present

Michael York as Bob Cratchit

Ed Asner as Jacob Marley's Ghost

Frank Welker as Debit

Kath Soucie as Mrs. Cratchit, Ghost of Christmas Past and Fan

Jodi Benson as Belle

Sam Saletta as Boy Scrooge

Jarrad Kritzstein as Tiny Tim

1935  /  1938  /  1951

1970  /  1983  /  1988

1992  /  1997  /  1999

Charles Dickens

One of the grand masters of Victorian literature, Charles Dickens was born on February 7, 1812, in Landport, Portsea, England. He died in Kent on June 9, 1870. The second of eight children of a family continually plagued by debt, the young Dickens came to know not only hunger and privation,but also the horror of the infamous debtors' prison and the evils of child labor. A turn of fortune in the shape of a legacy brought release from the nightmare of prison and "slave" factories and afforded Dickens the opportunity of two years' formal schooling at Wellington House Academy. He worked as an attorney's clerk and newspaper reporter until his Sketches by Boz (1836) and The Pickwick Papers (1837) brought him the amazing and instant success that was to be his for the remainder of his life. In later years, the pressure of serial writing, editorial duties, lectures, and social commitments led to his separation from Catherine Hogarth after twenty-three years of marriage. It also hastened his death at the age of fifty-eight, when he was characteristically engaged in a multitude of work.

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👻🎃⏳Throwback Thursday's Time Machine⏳🎃👻: Stormhaven by Jordan L Hawk

Summary:

Whyborne & Griffin #3

Mysterious happenings are nothing new to reclusive scholar Percival Endicott Whyborne, but finding one of his colleagues screaming for help in the street is rather unusual. Allan Tambling claims he can’t remember any of the last hour—but someone murdered his uncle, and Allan is covered in blood.

Whyborne’s lover, dashing private detective Griffin Flaherty, agrees to prove Allan’s innocence. But when Allan is deemed insane and locked away in the Stormhaven Lunatic Asylum, Griffin finds himself reliving the horrifying memories of his own ordeal inside a madhouse.

Along with their friend Christine, the two men become drawn deeper and deeper into a dark web of conspiracy, magic, and murder. Their only clue: a missing artifact depicting an unknown god. Who stole the artifact, and why can’t Allan remember what happened? And what is the truth behind the terrible experiments conducted on Stormhaven’s forbidden fourth floor?

It will take all of Whyborne’s sorcery and Griffin’s derring-do to stop the murderers and save Allan. But first, they must survive an even greater challenge: a visit from Griffin’s family.

Stormhaven is the third book in the Whyborne & Griffin series, where magic, mystery, and m/m romance collide with Victorian era America.

Books #1-4(Widdershins, Eidolin, Threshold, Stormhaven, Carousel, Remnant, & Necropolis)
Original Overall Review May 30, 2014:

I'm doing an overall review because each book flows fluently into the next.  Each book is a mystery in itself but the relationships are ongoing and growing so they really need to be read in order, although I did read the short story last and it wasn't really out of place.

The characters are not only well written but easily liked or hated, as the case may be.  As much as I love both Whyborne & Griffin, I really enjoyed Christine.  A woman before her time and smarter than her colleagues, she doesn't hold any punches with anyone and she is the only true friend that both men come to trust and rely on.  As for the hated characters, for me it was pretty consistently Whyborne's father and brother, they are both self-evolved with tunnel vision.  But we can't like everyone in a story.

The mysteries are intriguing and definitely well written.  They do rely heavily on the supernatural or paranormal, which is a plus for me.  It's done so well that for those who aren't necessarily fans of magic I think will still find these stories interesting.  This series is an excellent read anytime but a perfect read for October and Halloween.

RATING:

An array of probes lay on the table in front of it, some of whose use was made obvious by their shape. Bile stung my throat, and I glanced at Griffin, whose empty-eyed gaze had locked on the probes.

If he slipped into a fit now, we’d be caught for sure. I had to get him out of here. “Griffin,” I said, low and urgent. “Hang on. We’re almost there. I know you can do this.”

He swallowed convulsively, then nodded. “Yes. Just…lead the way.”

I did so, trying not to think of him locked in one of those cribs or chairs, let alone receiving shocks from the instruments. I wanted to take him far from here, wrap my arms around him, and shield him from every possible harm. But I couldn’t.

I led him further down the ward, wondering how many men might be confined here. Unlike the first floor ward, these walls weren’t painted a cheerful yellow. Instead, strange, swirling lines and symbols covered the raw plaster. I stopped to look at them, certain I’d seen many of the sigils in the Arcanorum and other occult tomes. A symbol hung above every cell, with sigils and lines twisting out from it, both inside the cell and to tangle with its neighbors.

What the devil was Zeiler doing with these men?

Griffin tugged at my hand. There was no time to gawk, I reminded myself. As we hurried down the ward, I shone my lantern into each cell, hoping for a glimpse of Allan. The wretched patients were little more than huddled shapes, for the most part, with the occasional gleam of eyes. The low moaning grew louder, and I realized it came from a cell halfway down the ward. Through some trick of the ventilation, the scent of the sea strengthened as we approached, drowning out the foulness of human effluvia. The air grew heavy and damp, smelling of salt and rot, dead fish and cold, cold mud.

My footsteps turned sluggish, as if mired in sludge. I needed to keep walking…and yet for some reason I felt compelled to look into the cell. Everything seemed to move very slowly, as if I’d slipped into some strange dream.

My feet came to a halt altogether, and I shone the beam of my lantern on the moaning man. The occupant of the cell crouched with his back to me. Unlike the shabbily-clothed patients I’d seen thus far, he seemed to be naked, his vertebrae strung like stones beneath his skin. Tattoos of strange design covered his arms and part of his back. Had he been a sailor, perhaps? Even one of the cultists?

The moaning fell suddenly silent. When the madman spoke, his cracked voice lilted strangely, like a child half-singing the words of a taunt. “You hear its song.”

My breath caught in my throat. “I d-don’t know what you mean,” I lied.

A low laugh started…then spread to the other cells, until we stood in the midst of a whole ward of laughing, cackling, giggling lunatics. “Don’t you?” the sailor asked. “It sings to you as it sings to us. In our dreams.”

“Whyborne,” Griffin said urgently, but he seemed very far away. On the other side of the world, or at the bottom of a well.

I took a step closer to the cell, fascinated by the tattoos on the sailor’s back. Was it a trick of the light, or had they begun to move?

The lunatic sprang to his feet, slamming into the bars, mere inches from my face. “It sings to you!” he screamed, spittle flying everywhere.

No, not spittle—sea foam. Somehow—I didn’t know how—the ocean had risen into Stormhaven, an inch of water splashing beneath my feet, the scent of the murky depths filling my nose. It wasn’t possible—it would take a cataclysm indeed for the ocean to rise so high, and surely the building would have been swept away. But where did the water come from?

What was happening to me?

“It’s coming!” the madman howled, shaking the bars of his cage. “The dweller in the deep is coming! The god is coming, singing; don’t you hear it, don’t you hear it?”

A hand touched my arm.

Saturday Series Spotlight

Part 1  /  Part 2  /  Part 3

Jordan L Hawk

Jordan L. Hawk is a trans author from North Carolina. Childhood tales of mountain ghosts and mysterious creatures gave him a life-long love of things that go bump in the night. When he isn’t writing, he brews his own beer and tries to keep the cats from destroying the house. His best-selling Whyborne & Griffin series (beginning with Widdershins) can be found in print, ebook, and audiobook.

If you want to contact Jordan, just click on the links below or send an email.

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Stormhaven #3

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Whyborne & Griffith Series

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Saturday's Series Spotlight: The Pride by Jordan L Hawk Part 1

Blind Tiger #1

Summary:

1924, Chicago. Prohibition is in full swing and gang bosses rule the city with might—and magic.

When Sam Cunningham flees his small-town life to try his luck in the big city of Chicago, he quickly finds himself in over his head in a world of gangs, glitz, and glamour. Fortunately, he has his cousin Eldon to teach him the trade of hex-making.

Everything changes the night Sam visits The Pride speakeasy and meets grumpy cheetah-shifter Alistair Gatti. After losing his first witch to the horrors of the World War, Alistair isn’t interested in any new entanglements, romantic or magical. Especially when said entanglement comes in the form of kind, innocent Sam.

When Eldon is brutally murdered, Sam becomes drawn into the dark underworld of the Chicago gangs. Sam must find the missing hex Eldon created for one of the crime bosses—before whoever killed Eldon comes back for him.

Together, Alistair and Sam begin the search for the mysterious hex, diving deep into the seedy side of Chicago’s underworld while dodging rival gangs. And as they come to rely on one another, Alistair realizes he’s falling for the one man he can’t afford to love.

👀The Pride takes place in the same universe as the Hexworld books.👀

Lion's Tail #2

Summary:

Control the booze. Control the magic. Control Chicago.

Sam Cunningham just wants a quiet life with his lover, the cheetah-shifter Alistair Gatti. But that hope is dashed when a member of Mickey Sullivan’s gang dies inside the Gatti family’s speakeasy.

Sullivan wants Sam to work for him, deciphering long-forgotten hexes as part of his illegal hexworks operation. At the same time, a corrupt prohibition agent demands Sam and Alistair investigate the gang member’s murder. Caught between gangster and agent, they must walk a fine line just to stay alive.

Because the sinister forces behind the killing are still out there, and now they have Sam in their sights…

Blind Tiger #1

Original Review July 2021:

WOW!  Just WOW! WOW! and WOW! again.

Okay, now that I got that out of my system, I can continue.

Blind Tiger ticks so many of my boxes:

Historical✅

Post-WW1✅

1920s✅

Prohibition✅

Chicago(Upper Midwest so it's sorta local-ish)✅

Paranormal/Supernatural✅

Romance✅

Friendship✅

Witches/Familiars✅

Mob✅

Mystery✅

Mayhem/Danger✅

Opposites Attract✅

It may seem there is almost too many boxes ticked but the author blends them all together perfectly.

Jordan L Hawk has not only started a new series but made it a spin-off(or next generation style) of one of my favorites, Hexworld.  For those who have already read the Hexworld series, you know how amazing the world building is, taking a historical setting and making witchcraft and their familiars a known element, they don't have to hide who they are because the world knows, history incorporates paranormal as part of it's reality.  To me that's harder than keeping the paranormal world a secret, blending the two to make an alternate universe or timeline.  Genius!

Now having mentioned Hexworld and that The Pride is kind of a spin-off, don't think you have to read Hexworld first because even though it's the same universe, the same alternate reality, you won't be lost, you won't be left wondering "how did this happen?" "why does this work?".  The author lays it all out for you but be warned, if Blind Tiger is your introduction to the Hexworld universe, you will want to go back and read it as well, this AU is addictive.

Now let's talk Alistair and Sam.  Opposites attract probably puts it pretty mildly, completely different backgrounds and ways of life but once they lock eyes, you just know nothing is ever going to be the same for either.  There were so many times I wanted to smack Alistair for not being open to the possibilities of happiness but also I wanted to give Sam a good shake to erase the self-doubt that often crept in usually in the form of his family's voices.  Truth is there is probably just as many times that I wanted to wrap them both up in Mama Bear Hugs and tell them everything is going to be okay.  For me, those warring emotions inside of me is what told me this is a journey worth reading and that their chemistry is off the charts.

And where would 1920's Prohibition be without a little murder?  The mystery is the element that pulls everything together, brings(or perhaps "keeps") Sam into Alistair's world.  They mystery may be secondary plot-wise to Sam and Alistair's journey but it is what weaves everything together and kept me guessing till the reveal.

I think I'm going to stop there before I'm tempted to give too much away.  I'll just end by saying the blending of all the boxes I ticked earlier make Blind Tiger pop!  I was not only sucked into the story and didn't want to put it down but I felt I was right there in the Gatti's club, The Pride and witnessing it unfold right next to me.  Another brilliant bit of storytelling from an amazing author.  Jordan L Hawk has brought another winner to the table.

Lion's Tail #2

Original Review September 2024:

I remember reading Blind Tiger when my mom was in the hospital in 2021 and how much de-stressing the story gave me.  It blends several of my faves: paranormal, historical(prohibition, 1920s, post-WW1 to be precise), romance, and loads of mayhem.  I can't deny that I've been waiting on pins and needles ever since for another story from The Pride but I also know authors can only give us the stories when the characters are ready to tell them.  So yes, it's been a bit of a wait but oh so worth every single painstakingly aching second of it😉.

Lion's Tail is one of the best follow-up stories I've read in a long time.  Sam and Alistair are just as yummy as I remember.  Alistair is a bit overprotective but never in a malicious way so despite a few times of wanting to smack him upside the back of the head and telling him to chill, I loved that he cared so much.  Sam is finally finding his place, although at times it seems he is still not quite suited for the mayhem around him but then he says or does something and you realize that perhaps he isn't quite as out of his depth as you might think.

Sam's family plays a part in this entry and boy, talk about characters I wanted to . . . well let's be ladylike here and say they aren't exactly what I call "good stock" and leave it at that😉.  Where as the found family that makes up the cast at the Pride speakeasy, they are "good stock" and have Sam and Alistair's back.

As to the mystery element of Lion's Tail?  Well no spoilers here but it kept me guessing upto the reveal, not completely on the who but definitely the why and how.  I got shivers just thinking about it as I type this, heebiejeebies but perfect for Halloweeny reading.

The Pride is a spinoff of the author's Hexworld series. Even though you need to read Blind Tiger before Lion's Tail you really wouldn't have to read Hexworld first.  There are some hex-terminology that might smooth over a bit if you read Hexworld but by no means is it a necessity.  I do highly recommend checking out Hexworld for it's brilliant storytelling and world-building but you wouldn't have to do so before Blind and Lion.

However you choose to read them, Jordan L Hawk is a master of paranormal mayhem, so you will definitely enjoy the world they've created.

RATING:

Blind Tiger #1

1 

The rumrunner waited for them behind a burned-out building just north of Chicago. 

Philip steered the Model T truck over the bumpy ground, every pothole jarring Alistair’s spine. Doris sat in the wooden bed behind them, the occasional lights reflecting in her eyes. The moon had set with the sun, clouds blotting out the stars. The electric glow of the city tapered out a mile back, the only illumination from the headlights. 

They pulled up beside the rumrunner’s truck and climbed out. The rumrunner strode toward them, her hair hidden under a cap and her clothes—and no doubt weapons—mainly concealed by a long overcoat. The nights still held a definite chill in April, and Alistair had to resist the temptation to stick his hands in his pockets. No sense in making anyone think he was reaching for a concealed gun. 

“About time you showed up,” she said, shooting a glare at Philip.

“We’re right on schedule, Camille,” Philip replied. He was a big man, solidly built in contrast to Alistair’s own lean ranginess. The headlights washed out his pale, almost colorless hair and gleamed in his yellow-gray eyes. “Do you have the goods?” 

One of Camille’s men flung back the tarp covering the crates stacked in the back of their truck. “Straight down from Canada,” she said. “Do you have my scratch?” 

Alistair removed a thick envelope from inside his jacket and passed it to her. She looked inside, quickly thumbed the stack of bills, and then vanished it into her own oversized coat. “A pleasure doing business with you. Load ‘em up, boys.” 

“Not just yet,” Philip said, holding up his hand. 

Camille rolled her eyes. “We’ve always dealt straight with you, Gatti. Do you have to do this every time? It’s a little insulting.” 

“Sounds like what someone who’s planning a crooked deal might say,” Alistair observed. 

Camille focused on him, her eyes narrowed in anger. Philip merely looked pained. “You aren’t supposed to say that part out loud, Alistair,” he muttered. 

This was why Philip was the front man, and Alistair usually stayed in back and counted the money. Ordinarily their busboy, a burly young man by the name of Frank, would come along and help move boxes. But Frank had run off to Mexico with his sweetheart a week ago, so Alistair volunteered to come just this once.

He didn’t regret speaking up, even though he’d obviously pissed off Camille. She might not be slipping them watered down hooch—or worse, booze doctored with rubbing alcohol or gasoline—but she’d thought about it. 

Of course she had. You couldn’t trust anyone, certainly not in this business. 

Camille took a threatening step forward. Her hand dipped toward her pocket—she was definitely packing heat. “I don’t like your tone,” she said. Her goons shifted, not yet pointing guns, but waiting on the signal. 

Apparently, they’d forgotten who they were dealing with. 

A warning growl sounded from the darkness near the truck. Nothing showed of Doris: not a hair, not a whisker, not even the gleam of eyes in the night. But she was out there, and she wasn’t happy. 

Shotguns were all well and good, but an angry tiger was even better. 

The men paled, and the chilly air smelled suddenly of fear. Camille’s eyes darted to the shadows, then to Philip and Alistair. Taking in Philip’s yellow-tinged eyes and Alistair’s deep amber. Remembering, no doubt, why the Gatti family might work with the gangs, but hadn’t been subsumed by them. 

Not that the Gattis were related by blood. No one would look at pale, sturdy Philip and think Alistair, with his rangy body and Italian looks, was his literal brother, or brown-skinned Doris his sister. But the bonds between them were no less for it. 

Camille stepped back and gestured to the crates. “Work your magic, then.”

“Thank you.” Philip took out a leather wallet, shuffled through its contents, then removed a sheet of paper with an elaborate hex drawn on it. He chose a crate from amidst the pile. One of Camille’s men unloaded it, opened the lid, and stood back. 

Philip held the hex over the bottles packed securely in straw. Joel and Wanda had charged it earlier, so he spoke the activation phrase: “Reveal to me the impure.” 

Alistair barely kept from rolling his eyes. Eldon, their hexman, had such a flare for the dramatic it was ridiculous. 

If any of the booze had been cut or otherwise tampered with, a betraying yellow glow would appear. This time, at least, there was nothing. 

“See?” Camille snapped at Alistair. “It’s good.” 

“This time,” he replied. 

Her scowl deepened. Philip hastily stepped between them. “Thank you for your indulgence, Camille, and I apologize for my brother.” 

“Maybe you ought to keep your ‘brother’ on a tighter leash, then.” She folded her arms angrily over her chest. “When we first went into business together, I told you I wouldn’t haul anything but the real McCoy. Now you bring this asshole along to insinuate my word’s no good?” 

“Of course I trust you,” Philip replied with his charming smile. “But you get the stuff from somewhere, and it’s them I’m not so certain about.” 

Alistair and Philip stood back while Camille’s men went to work. Doris emerged from the shadows in human form, dressed in boots and denim overalls, a cap pulled down over her sleek black hair. Despite the cold, she wore her sleeves rolled up to display muscular arms. Her pale yellow eyes were startling against the brown skin of her face, and one man nearly dropped a box in fear when she drew close to him. 

A long time ago, it had bothered Alistair, how frightened people were just because he could turn into a cheetah, or Philip into a snow leopard, or Wanda a lioness. No one wanted to adopt a so-called dangerous breed of familiar; even witches feared them, as though they had less ability to reason than the animals whose forms they took. Seeing the fear on someone’s face had hurt, made Alistair want to do something, anything, to prove that he wasn’t a wild animal ready to lash out. 

Then the war happened. And now here they all were, back together again and calling themselves the Gatti family, working in a business where that fear was all to their advantage. Not even the toughest gang leaders wanted to run the risk of waking up to find a tiger in their bedroom. 

Thank God, Sullivan wasn’t the toughest gang leader, just the smartest. 

When the shipment was transferred, Camille tipped her hat to them. “Safe travel home,” she said. “I’ll see you next time.” 

She climbed into her truck, along with her men. Within minutes, the chug of the engine faded away into the darkness. 

“Will there be a next time?” Doris asked, leaning idly against the side of their own truck.

“Good question.” Philip turned to Alistair. “You’re such an asshole. This is why I don’t usually bring you along.” 

Alistair grinned at him. “I love you, too.” 

“Seriously, though,” Doris said. “We still doing business with her?” 

They both looked to Alistair, since he was second in command after Wanda. “Camille’s thinking about double-crossing us,” he said. “Maybe she won’t now that she knows we’re suspicious, but the temptation is always going to be there.” He paused. “And once we get back, have Joel charge some more of those hexes. I want every bottle inspected, just in case she hid a bad batch near the back on the truck, where you wouldn’t look.” 

“Fur and feathers,” Philip muttered. “Should I feel around for a new supplier?” 

“Leave that part to Wanda.” Alistair hunched his shoulders deep inside his heavy coat. “Come on. Let’s get back to The Pride before we freeze our tails off.”

Lion's Tail #2

1

May 1924

Alistair folded his arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes as he stared up at the sky.

Rumrunners used every mode of transportation available to bring hooch down from Canada or up from Mexico…but an airplane? At night?

Airplanes were a bad idea to start with. Avian familiars could already fly; why did ordinary people need to be up there, too? Sure, it might make the mail faster in some cases, but if a letter was that damned urgent, you were better off hiring a falcon courier in the first place.

But here he was, freezing his tail off on an unseasonably cold night in May, in the middle of some farmer’s field north of Chicago, tending a line of fires to signal the airplane where to land in the otherwise dark countryside. Doris waited in the truck—engine running, of course, in case the prohees showed up.

Damn Camille. She’d been their old supplier, but then blown things by acting suspicious, like she was thinking about passing them some bad hooch. Plenty of speakeasies got by serving yack yack bourbon, but that wasn’t The Pride’s style. Alistair had killed enough men with his bare claws in France. Killing more of them with poisonous booze wouldn’t have sat right with him, even if Wanda would have tolerated it.

The silence was broken by the low growl of an engine overhead. Doris switched on the headlights, and he retreated to wait near the truck with Philip.

A few minutes later, the airplane set down, bumping merrily over the uneven ground until coasting to a stop. A middle-aged man flung open the door, grinning from ear to ear.

“Evening, folks!” he yelled as they jogged over. “Sure hope you ain’t the, what do you call ’em, prohees.”

“Not a chance.” Philip took the lead, walking to the man and extending his hand. “Philip Gatti. This is my brother Alistair and my sister Doris.”

The rumrunner did a double-take, since Doris with her bronze skin and Alistair with his olive complexion were clearly not related by blood to either the pale Philip or each other. But he didn’t comment. “Frankie Malone, at your service.”

“You own the distillery that produced this alcohol, correct?” Alistair asked, impatient for the preliminaries to be done with.

Malone grinned proudly. “Sure do. I gotta say, you Americans banning liquor has been a hell of a boon for us over the border. But I guess I don’t need to tell you that, seeing as you’re in the business yourself.”

He wasn’t wrong; the price of a barrel of beer had gone from seven dollars to fifty-five thanks to the Volstead Act. Men like Mickey Sullivan, whose gang controlled a big chunk of Chicago, were making a fortune.

Sullivan would rather they’d bought from him, given The Pride operated within his territory. But his supply consisted of booze made from wood alcohol, often enhanced with gasoline, and Alistair wasn’t about to touch the stuff. Given everyone in the Gatti family could turn into a big cat, Sullivan’s men left them alone.

For now, anyway.

Philip gave Malone his usual charming smile. “I don’t suppose you’d mind us using a hex to check your supply? No offense, but I’m sure you’ve heard the stories, and poisoning our customers is bad for business.”

Malone chuckled. “Not much repeat business to get from a corpse, eh? Go right ahead. I take pride in my product.”

That was a good sign. In Alistair’s mind, anyone balking at the use of a hex to detect impurities was either up to some shady business or thinking hard about it. As Malone and Doris began to unload the crates of bourbon, Philip produced a hex from his wallet. Choosing a random bottle, he held the hex over it and said, “Reveal to me the impure.”

If the booze was diluted with fusel oil or embalming fluid or some other impurity, it would glow yellow. The color of the liquid inside the bottles remained the same, however, which meant Malone was probably as good as his word.

“Told ya,” Malone said with another grin. “This here is pure old Canadian bourbon, good as it comes. Got a flask on my hip if you want to share a drink…?”

“No thank you,” Alistair said, before Philip could agree. “The longer we hang around here, the bigger the chance we’ll be spotted.”

“Good point.” Malone started back for his plane. “I’ll see you next week, then.”

“We could have at least had one drink,” Philip complained, as the airplane turned around and trundled off down the field, taking flight dangerously close to the tree line.

Alistair climbed into the truck. “We’re not here to make friends, Philip.”

Doris snorted from the driver’s seat. “You don’t make friends anywhere.”

“That’s not true,” Alistair said, even though it absolutely was. “Come on, let’s get this back to Chicago and under wraps. The sooner we’re off the road, the better.”

Sam fumed quietly ashe cleared the tables at The Pride speakeasy.

He’d come to work early, because he and Alistair were supposed to go apartment hunting in the afternoon. But when he’d arrived, it was to find Alistair in the process of leaving to meet with a new rumrunner, without a single indication he even remembered their appointment.

Maybe Sam should have said something. But he’d bitten his words back, put on a smile, and mumbled something about getting an early start on his shift. Leaving his hurt feelings to fester, just like always.

Though Alistair still technically had a room at The Pride, they’d been staying in the house that had belonged to Sam’s dead cousin, Eldon. It was convenient, spacious…and didn’t legally belong to either of them. At some point, his aunt and uncle were going to show up and throw him out. Better to clear out beforehand, so he didn’t have to face their recriminations.

Except Alistair didn’t seem to want that.

Sam pressed his lips into a thin line and reminded himself that he loved Alistair. Alistair loved him. They were taking things slow; Alistair’d had a bad experience with his first witch and they’d agreed to put off bonding until he was ready.

But they were meant to have an apartment together by now, something legitimate. Instead, they were squatting amidst a dead man’s things, just waiting for the day they’d be ordered to leave.

It was the uncertainty he hated. Sam wanted stability, and why shouldn’t he? An apartment with a lease in his name, a better job to pay for it—that wasn’t too much to ask for, was it?

Given Alistair’s absence, apparently it was.

He cleared the used silverware and plates from a table just as Zola, the hostess, swooped in with four new patrons. Weaving his way back across the room, he passed the waitress, Teresa, whose yellow-green eyes were the same as in her cougar form. She shot him a cheery wink, a tray laden with oysters on toast balanced on one hand. Her other arm was still in a sling from the bullet she’d recently taken while caught in the crossfire of a gangland war.

Norman Rose, a regular at the speakeasy, lifted his glass in salute when he spotted Sam. Wanda Gatti, The Pride’s owner, let customers in through the steel door, shaking their hands as they entered. Her girlfriend, the robin familiar Holly Savine, drank champagne at the bar, served by Wanda’s witch Joel Hunt. Though Joel had an above-board business as a tailor, he occasionally covered the bar when Philip was out.

They all smiled when they met his eye, and Sam felt his bad mood dissolving. This strange collection of familiars and witches, criminals and artists, were his friends. When Eldon’s death had left him alone in Chicago, they’d stepped in to fill the gap, drawing him into the warmth of their odd little family. For the first time in his life, he had people he could turn to who wouldn’t let him down.

Breaking free of the crowd, Sam escaped through the swinging doors into the kitchen. Though a couple of electric fans valiantly strove to circulate air, the kitchen simmered in the heat from the stove and the humidity from the hot water in the sink.

Reinhold—the cook and Teresa’s witch—slid lobster canapés deftly onto a plate, while Sam emptied his tub into the sink. “Busy night, huh, Sam?” Reinhold asked. One side of his face was creased and distorted from a war wound; according to him, the surgeons had performed a miracle of restoration. “Have you taken your break yet?”

“Haven’t had a chance,” Sam said, brushing sweat off his brow.

“Why don’t you nip outside, get some air?”

The offer was tempting, but he instinctively balked at it. Back when he’d worked at the family pharmacy, Dad had frequently berated him for his laziness, reminding him no one but family would tolerate such slacking. “I’ll do a quick round of the dining room,” Sam hedged, hefting his tub again. “Collect anything that needs collecting.”

Reinhold rolled his eyes good-naturedly and turned back to the stove. A few seconds later, Sam was back out into the chaos. The Pride was bustling tonight, every table jammed with flappers and sheiks. Cocktails bloomed in every color magic could provide: royal purple, peacock blue, bloody red. Over the sound of jazz from the band, there could just be heard the pop of champagne corks, the raucous laughter of drunk women, and the boastful toasts of businessmen. Twisting figures packed the small dance floor, sending the scent of sweat to mingle with perfume, booze, and cigarette smoke.

All of the tables were occupied at the moment, so he threaded between them, snatching up empty glasses and clearing away bare plates as he went. A few of the regular customers greeted him, and he found himself smiling.

He was going to miss all of this when he got another job. If he got another job.

At the far end of the bar from the kitchen was the coat check and front door, where Wanda had taken over Doris’s duty tonight. Her yellow suit contrasted beautifully with her dark skin and matched her golden lion eyes.

As he rounded the last tables, she swung the heavy steel door open to let a new customer in. “Are you all right, Bobby?” she asked. “Maybe you need some coffee.”

The young man who entered seemed vaguely familiar, though Sam couldn’t immediately place him. Dark hair, medium build, with a pleasantly handsome face. His eyes, however, were glassy, and sweat sheened his pale skin.

“Help me,” he mumbled. “I don’t feel good.”

Wanda sniffed the air and frowned. “What’ve you been drinking?”

Bobby didn’t seem to hear her. Instead, he staggered inside, his gait unsteady, as though his knee joints didn’t work properly.

Sam hurried forward and caught him before he could careen into one of the other tables. Bobby clutched at him desperately, like a drowning man. “What was in that drink?” he slurred. “I think…I think he poisoned me. You got to help me!”

Sam cast a desperate glance at Wanda, who sighed and put a hand to Bobby’s shoulder. “Come on. You need to sleep it off.”

Bobby didn’t answer. He seemed to grow heavier on Sam’s shoulders as he went limp. Then, with a final gurgling sigh, he slid to the floor dead.

A group of cat-shifters run a speakeasy amidst the magic and violence of 1920s Chicago.

The Pride takes place in the same universe as the Hexworld books.

Saturday's Series Spotlight

Hexworld

Part 1  /  Part 2

Monday's Mystical Magic

Hexhunter

Saturday's Series Spotlight

The Pride

Part 1

Jordan L Hawk

Jordan L. Hawk is a trans author from North Carolina. Childhood tales of mountain ghosts and mysterious creatures gave him a life-long love of things that go bump in the night. When he isn’t writing, he brews his own beer and tries to keep the cats from destroying the house. His best-selling Whyborne & Griffin series (beginning with Widdershins) can be found in print, ebook, and audiobook.

If you want to contact Jordan, just click on the links below or send an email.

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